The King's Deception

“Exactly how Cecil wanted it to be. That code has never been cracked. But we have clues as to how that might be accomplished. Would you like to see more images from the journal?”

She nodded.

“I have them inside. You wait here, and I’ll retrieve them.”

The professor turned and headed back toward the lit hall.

Kathleen heard a pop, like hands clapping.

Then another.

She turned.

A ragged hole exploded in the knit material at Eva’s right shoulder. The older woman let out a strangled grunt.

Another pop.

Blood spewed.

Eva fell forward to the stone.

Kathleen whirled and spotted the outline of a shooter on the far roof, maybe thirty meters away.

Who was readjusting his rifle’s aim.

At her.

Seventeen

Antrim approached the Tower of London. The ancient taupe-colored citadel nestled near the Thames, the picturesque Tower Bridge nearby. What was once an enormous moat encircling the fortress was now a sea of emerald grass, lit by a sodium vapor glow, that spanned a void between the imposing wall curtain and the street. A cool night breeze, which had blown away the storm, eased off the river.

He knew the area from his childhood, recalling the array of nearby textile sweatshops, clothing stores, and Bengali restaurants. The East End was once the city’s dumping ground, a place where immigrants first settled. Tomorrow, Saturday, market day, meant the alleys would be filled with vendors hawking fresh fruit and secondhand clothes. He remembered as a kid roaming these streets, getting to know the peddlers, learning about life.

His target was strolling ahead of him at a brisk pace, but lingered a few moments before a music hall advertising a cabaret show.

Then the man crossed the street.

A multistory car park rose to the right, but the dark-haired gentleman kept strolling, the Union Jack, lit by floodlights, fluttering high above the Tower. The site was closed for the day, the admission booths dark and empty. Beyond, on the banks of the Thames, people milled back and forth, the illuminated Tower Bridge in the distance heavy with stop-and-go traffic. The dark-haired man ventured to the riverbank, then sat on one of the benches.

Antrim approached and sat beside him.

Winter’s prelude clawed its way from the cold stone through the seat of his pants. Thank goodness he’d worn gloves and a lined coat.

“I hope this is important,” the other man said to him. “I had plans tonight.”

“One of my men was just killed.”

The man kept his gaze out to the river.

He explained what had happened inside St. Paul’s. The man, a senior deputy to America’s ambassador to the United Kingdom, faced him. “Do the Brits know what we’re doing?”

The meeting had been arranged by Langley, after he’d reported some but not all of what happened. He’d specifically omitted who’d killed his man in St. Paul’s and what happened in the Temple Church.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s under control.”

“Is it, Antrim? Really? Under control?”

They were in public, so decorum was required.

“Do you understand what’s at stake here?” the man asked.

Sure he did, but thought it best to cast a smoke screen of goodwill. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“The Scottish government is about to release al-Megrahi. That insanity is happening. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died on that plane. Eleven Scots died on the ground. But everyone seems to have forgotten all that.”

“The CIA lost a station chief on Pan Am 103. So did the Defense Intelligence Agency and the Diplomatic Security Service. Four agents flying home. I understand what’s at stake.”

“And we were told that you had a way to stop it. That, of course, was a year ago. Yet here we are, no closer to stopping anything. That prisoner release will show just how weak we are in the world right now. Can you imagine how this is going to play? Kaddafi will laugh in our faces. He’ll parade al-Megrahi before every news camera he can find. The message will be crystal clear. We can’t even get one of our allies to hold on to a mass murderer — a man who killed some of their own people. I need to know. Can you stop this?”

He was awaiting word that everything had gone right in that mews with Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne, but was a bit disturbed that he hadn’t received any further reports.

“The way to stop this,” he said, “is to force the British to intervene. The Scots normally can’t take a crap without London’s consent. They have little to no home rule. So we both know the Scottish government is acting with the Brits’ tacit consent. One word from London and that deal with the Libyans would be off.”

“Like I don’t know that.”

“I’m working on leverage that could force the British to act.”

“Which we have not been briefed on.”

“And you won’t, until we have it. But we’re close. Real close.”

“Unfortunately, your time is about up. We’re told this transfer is going to happen within the next few days.”